Tartan Jumpers
by Snowy Winter Tales
Summary: Ginny discovers someone in her bed who is not actually supposed to be in there.


**Tartan Jumpers**

There was a faint hoot somewhere, and she rather thought that it was very impolite, hooting at such an early, ungodly hour in the morning. Mornings with faint hoots and warm, muscled around her, she could do without, she thought, before holding still.

Hoots? _Muscled arms_?

_Bloody effing hell_, she managed to think, before toppling rather ungracefully out of her warm bed and onto the cold marble tiles that made up the floor of her bedroom. There was a shift under the maroon red covers, but the owner of the muscled arms didn't bother to wake up. Bloody idiot.

And now she'd said bloody twice. Trice. Within the span of a right minute. Inwardly. Perhaps St. Mungo's was rubbing off on her, she cared for the insane, she slowly became insane. It would make sense, in a weird Gred-Forge way.

A glance at the grandfather clock in the corner told her that it was nearing six, and she thanked herself for having trained herself to wake up at six every day, because it usually meant she avoided sleeping in, which meant that she could do what she was about to do and not be late for work.

'All right, whoever you are,' she said, standing up, her bright hair bearing a striking resemblance to a bird's nest, full of knots and tangled in every possible way. 'You should be going now. It was great, fantastic, now I have work, goodbye.'

She emphasised the last word as she stood by the other side of her bed, and gave a tug at the covers. The person that had been lying under them, sleeping peacefully, gave a grunt of surprise at the sudden coldness, and warily opened his eyes.

'Malfoy?'

'Oh _no_,' said Malfoy, burying his head in her white pillow in a madly familiar but childish gesture, that indicated that _Merlin, if you created wizarding kind as you claim, kindly do me a favour and un-create me, now_. Though perhaps, knowing the snotty, pureblooded Malfoy that he was, it had been thought in more, say, fancy words.

'Well,' Ginny said, letting herself fall down upon the armchair by her bed in a manner that suggested she'd done it many a times before, and would come to do it a lot in the future, as situations like these would arise occasionally. 'That's seriously messed up.'

'Oh _no_,' was the reply from under the pillow he'd been sleeping on.

'I wondered why the sex was so horrible,' Ginny mused out loud, purposely dragging out the words that she knew would annoy him the most, because she wanted him to move on from the 'Oh no' phase.

As no one would've guessed, her white pillow hit the wall of her bedroom with a muffled 'smack!' when Malfoy finally sat up, shock written all over his features. _Not too flattering, _Ginny thought to herself thoughtfully, _must use that against him sometime_.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Rubbish,' Ginny clarified. 'Complete and utter rubbish. I daresay that even Harry was better, and with all due respect for his Quidditch and wizarding abilities, you do not wish to be compared to him when it comes to the manners between the linen.'

'You do not have linen bed sheets, Weasley.'

'Witty, Malfoy. That is what we English people call 'metaphorical'.'

Malfoy still looked rather flabbergasted, though now it seemed that he was quite irritated with her as well. Well, the worse the merrier. She thought she'd heard Hermione say that once, and most of the things Hermione said were quite sensible. If he was cross with her, he'd leave.

'Now, is there any particular reason why you are here befouling my sheets for longer than necessary?' she asked.

'Weasley,' his tone was soft, almost accepting, and she realised that he wanted to give her a false sense of security by saying this, 'Can we just forget about last night?'

'Forget about it?' she repeated, rather unfazed. 'Why, that would spoil all the fun, Malfoy. I have, after all, a batch of friends who would be most interested in how good you exactly are between the metaphorical linen that I do not own; I can't let the opportunity pass.'

'I must say, the "it was great, fantastic" business was rather short-lived, wasn't it?'

'You're a pointy-faced bastard and I can't think of anyone who doesn't hate you.'

'Well, you didn't seem to last night –'

'_Last_ night,' she cut in loudly, 'was when I had one too many glasses of Firewhiskey, and can thus hardly be blamed for the events that transpired.'

'You are highly immature.'

'You are highly bothersome. I say, haven't you got any poor, unsuspecting students to mentally abuse? I need to be getting to work.'

'I do not abuse.'

'Malfoy, I slept with you. For the third time. That's already awful enough as it is. Don't attempt to lighten the mood.'

'Malfoys do not attempt. Malfoys succeed.'

'In attempting to lighten the mood?'

'Oh, shut up.'

'_You_ shut up, in case you haven't noticed, you're in my house.'

'Your house?'

'Oh, not this again. Haven't we gotten any closer to 'Why, thank you, I had the most marvellous time, you simply _must_ drop by at the Manor sometime and have tea with my wife'?'

'For your information, Weasley, I am not a bloody shirt-lifter, I would never say such a thing.'

'Because you don't have a wife?'

His lips twisted into a scowl that didn't quite suit him. 'Because I don't want to be remembered of the glaringly obvious mistake that is sitting right opposite me. I'd hardly invite you over for tea, Pansy'd murder me on the spot.'

'Serves you well, pretending to be named John and saying you're not married.'

'Oh, so you _do _remember that bit?'

'I have half a mind to throw this wine glass at you.'

'Well, that would just ruin everything.'

'Would it?'

There was a faint hint of a smirk playing at his lips, and it scared her, rather than soothed her. 'Completely unromantic, wine glass throwing.'

'You've got an awfully strange sense of what is romantic and what is not, Malfoy.'

'Marry me.'

She choked on what seemed to be air, before narrowing her eyes at him, a faint hint of a blush on her cheeks. 'Tell me that's one of your ill-timed jokes again.'

'Weasley,' he said impatiently, sighing.

'Well, what do you expect? You've properly talked to me once and now you are suddenly heels-over-head madly oh-let's-_marry_ in love with me?'

'Heels-over-head?' he repeated, quite amused.

'Yes, well,' Ginny said dismissively, waving a hand.

'It's not that hard, you know. Just say yes and be done with it.'

'What on earth makes you think I'd say yes?'

'The fact that you said that you loved me. Fourteen times.'

Ginny raised an eyebrow. 'Fourteen times? What am I, an unhealthy stalker?'

Malfoy grinned at her. 'You tell me, Weasley.'

'Fine. All right. Yes.'

Malfoy stared at her for a moment, before allowing himself a smile that was so beautiful in its rareness, that it momentarily shocked her. 'Really?'

'Yes. But you do have to admit, the Pansy bit was a bit scary. It made me jealous.'

'Anything to make you say yes,' Malfoy smirked, his grey eyes dancing oddly in the sunlight that streamed through the window.

'Next time, we're celebrating our anniversary differently.'

'All right, all right.'

* * *

**Author's Note: **Quite pointless little ficlet written for the beautiful and lovely Sabs' birthday. It isn't really until the 19th of June, but I doubt I'll be able to come near the computer then, because my exam results should be rolling in, and I can't let the phone out of my sight. So, er, happy two month early birthday, Sabs!


End file.
